


Following the Third Rule

by Cedar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Post War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-20
Updated: 2006-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-27 09:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10806666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cedar/pseuds/Cedar
Summary: Love and loss follow Pansy out of Hogwarts and into the war.





	Following the Third Rule

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Beta-read by Callie and LaurieGilbert.  


* * *

  


  


_Following the Third Rule_

  


  
Ron Weasley has no arse.   


It's a little known fact.   


Actually, considering all the arses, or not, I've seen in my lifetime, it's probably not that little known a fact. Ron Weasley is a white bloke. White blokes have no arses, unless they're, I don't know, David Beckham or something. Sure, Beckham's a Muggle, but with an arse (and abs, and arms) like that, who cares? But David Beckham doesn't exist on the same planet as Ron Weasley, and unless I start taking myself to Manchester United games I'm not going to see much of David Beckham's anything, much less his arse.   


How I came to know that Ron Weasley has no arse...and I mean _know_ , if you know what I mean...now _there's_ a story.   


It starts with Draco.   


Draco and I spent a lot of time ignoring the war during our seventh year, even though we both knew he was scheduled to take his Dark Mark at the end of June. The prospect scared him, and I was the only one who knew. Of course, Draco probably didn't spend quality time naked in bed telling secrets to anyone else. Much to Blaise Zabini's disappointment. I told Draco that Blaise was welcome to join us, and I was only half joking, but Draco said no amount of stolen firewhiskey could make him swing in Blaise's direction.   


"I like girls," he said, leaning closer to me, the heat from his bare skin making me even warmer under the thick blankets. "One girl in particular. I'd like to," he rasped as he wove his fingers into my hair, "spend as much time with her as possible."   


"Yeah? Is she cute?" I asked between kisses, tasting the faint mint metallic residue of his toothpaste. "'Cause, y'know, I might like to meet her someday."   


Draco rolled to one side, pinning me underneath him. This was one of my favorite places to be, safe and secure between Draco and the soft sheets. So close to his neck I could smell his cologne: lavender, lilac, and lime. He told me it was homemade, the recipe passed down through generations of Malfoy men. I don't know if I believed him, but he did smell incredible, and I've never been able to smell lavender without thinking of Draco. Between kisses on my forehead, my cheeks, my neck, he said, "I think you'd like her. She has beautiful dark hair and a cute little upturned nose. She's feisty, though. Got a temper. I'm not so sure she'd approve of me doing this to you." He slid further under the covers and took my breast in his mouth, flicking his tongue back and forth over my nipple.   


"Why? Do you do that to her, too?"   


When Draco laughed, his breath was vapor against my skin. "Yeah. But she's not lucky enough for me to do this to her," he replied as he settled between my legs and lowered his head. I don't know where he learned to do it, but he always knew exactly where to put his tongue against my clit, how to just run the tip over the little button that intensified everything he did. He knew that I liked a little restraint, to feel the weight of his hands against the tops of my thighs, to know that I was his to whatever degree he desired. When he got past the point where I knew coming was inevitable, I would reach over my head for the headboard, which had no place to grip except the bottom, that spot where it ended just above the mattress. If I didn't, I knew I would reach for his head. Draco had the softest hair, fine and smooth, and it always caught in my rings if I pushed his head, made him take a speed that was all mine and none of his. I didn't trust myself to trust him when I felt my heartbeat spread to my clit, so my fingertips would be white against the headboard as I let Draco let me come, an instantaneous moment followed by aftershocks in which I couldn't tolerate Draco's mouth anymore.   


Which was a shame.   


I'd be a liar to say that I wasn't the type to kiss and tell. I told, and so did all the other Slytherin girls over shared bags of Chocolate Frogs and stolen leftovers from dessert. And because of this, I knew I was lucky to have a bloke who would go down on me and never think twice, whose cock I sucked because I liked it and I wanted to, not because, "Well, you know, that's just what they expect."   


Draco respected me more than that.   


So did Ron. But I'm not there yet.   


As the year went on, I could feel more of what I know now was desperation and denial in everything Draco did. He even took to playing dumb practical jokes on the other Slytherin boys, attaching Ted Nott's boxers to the back of his robes with a Sticking Charm or writing flowery fake love letters from Vincent to Millicent. (Although now that I think about it, Millicent minded that a lot less than I thought she would.) With me he was all business, all the time. Or all bedroom, almost all the time. I realize that teenage boys have two modes to their brain, sex and sleeping, but Draco's appetite was near frightening. He became an expert at seeking out private places in the school, anything from a broom cupboard to a dark corner of the Great Hall behind a heavy curtain.   


Draco turned eighteen that May, and he told me on the evening of his birthday in a textbook storage room as he reached for the buttons on my blouse that he wasn't entirely sure he'd live to see nineteen.   


"Going straight to war right after school," he whispered against my neck. "Father wants me to stay to the end of the year, but then..." He slid a warm hand around my waist and up my back, pinching the clasp on my bra to open it. I sighed as he ran his fingertips over my back, drawing all my senses to the point of his touch. "I need you, Pansy."   


He was gaunt, weakened from stress, and I could feel that his lips were rough and dry as he kissed me, uneven over the parts where the skin had separated and patched itself back together with darker scabs. I reached over his arms to unfurl his belt, the buckle cold and heavy in my hands. The button on his trousers was strained from the tension of his erection, and I pushed the button through the hole slowly, in what I told myself was to avoid hurting him but what I knew was to torture him just a little. He could afford to wait five seconds.   


With his trousers and underwear around his ankles he pulled me closer, holding my head in his hands.   


"I want you on top."   


I straddled him as he laid back onto his robes, just the thin fabric between him and the stone floor. He kept his eyes open, said he liked to look at me, liked the idea that by being on top I was the one pleasuring him even though he knew I enjoyed it as much as he did. When I leaned forward to take his wrists I could feel the tiny bones. He liked that, when I pinned his wrists on either side of his head. He could have easily freed himself from my grasp, knowing he was taller and stronger than I was, but he never struggled enough to break away. Just enough for me to hold him tighter, the only thing he ever wanted.   


In the end, Draco was right: he never did make it to his nineteenth birthday. The last time I saw him was on our final day at Hogwarts, where he kissed me goodbye and pressed something dense and warm into my hand as he went to meet his parents on the train platform. When he was out of sight, I opened my hand to see the Slytherin ring his father had given him as a gift in our third year. He never took it off, and for a moment I wondered what he was going to tell Lucius, assuming Lucius noticed. Draco was probably gambling on the idea that he wouldn't. I slipped the ring into my pocket before my parents saw me, and once at home I wore it on a long chain around my neck, under my shirts. At night, I would pull it out of the neck of my nightgown and slip it over my finger, touching the moldings and the faceted surface of the emerald.   


I started working for the _Daily Prophet_ that summer, checking facts and fetching tea for the senior staff. That was how I found out about Draco, and how things started with Ron.   


Everyone in the wizarding world who could read knew that the end of the war was approaching. Dumbledore's followers as well as Voldemort's were thinning in number. I heard about most of it before everyone else, since I was the one responsible for the small details that went into the _Prophet_. I saw a lot of death notices with too many names I recognized. I made myself step back from the tragedy, immersing it in facts and numbers and dates. My boss praised me for my dedication and level-headedness.   


But the day that Ron walked into the _Prophet_ offices, I was holding Draco's obituary in one hand and his ring in the other, shaking.   


"Parkinson."   


He sounded surprised to see me. Probably because he was. He knew whose side my parents were on and he probably figured I'd be fighting with them. He wasn't that far from the truth, but he didn't know the important parts. He didn't know about the injuries my father had sustained in the first war that now made him a liability on a battleground, or about the fact that my mother was a much better witch on paper than in practice. They supported the side of pureblooded integrity, but they couldn't fight, not hand-to-hand. I'm sure it was the only reason they lived through the war.   


I was a mess. I'd been crying on and off all day and my eyes felt dry and pulpy, and pieces of hair fell out of my ponytail and stuck to my cheeks. My desk was covered in bits of broken quill, scattered notes, and half-empty cups of cold coffee. It wasn't so much that I cared what Ron -- Weasley at the time, I guess -- thought of how I looked, but I knew I looked unprofessional at best and a fright at worst. Our regular receptionist was at lunch, but I'd volunteered to keep an eye on the front desk while I did my research.   


"Weasley. What brings you here?"   


"I, er... Don't suppose you've seen Rita Skeeter anywhere."   


"No one's seen her in a couple of days, actually. She said she was going on assignment but with her, who knows?"   


"Right." He looked around. "I should... I guess I'll just leave her a message."   


"Be my guest." I turned back to my books, placing Draco's obituary at the edge of my desk.   


"Is there a quill anywhere? Spare bit of parchment?"   


"I'm not her secretary, Weasley."   


He must have left after that, but he was back a couple of minutes later.   


"Parkinson?"   


I looked up. Ron stood at our reception desk with a cup of steaming tea in one hand and a piece of red cloth in the other.   


"Weasley, if you leave the tea for her now, it'll be cold by the time she gets back. Look, I'll make sure she gets your message, all right? I realize we've never gotten along, but you're not worth losing my job over."   


He shook his head. "The tea's not for her." Stepping around our reception desk, he brought the tea to where I was sitting and set it down. He stood next to my desk, shifting his weight from foot to foot.   


It took me a moment to realize that the tea was for me.   


"Is it poisoned?" The steam curling from the surface smelled faintly of jasmine.   


"I've got better ways to off you than poisoned tea, Parkinson."   


"Yeah? Did you use one of your many offing methods on Draco?"   


"Did I what?"   


I couldn't answer him. Really, I had been managing fairly well up until that point besides the occasional run to the loo to cry, but the innocence, or maybe the ignorance, in his voice broke something inside me. I put my face in my hands and sobbed. There was nothing in the world I could have done worse in that moment than cry like a lunatic in front of Ron Weasley, sidekick to the Boy Wonderless. He tapped my arm with something soft, and I looked up long enough to see the red cloth he'd been holding earlier. His handkerchief. I took it and wiped at my face and didn't consider for a few moments that it was probably dirty.   


"Did you kill him?" I asked through my tears.   


"Kill who? What are you talking about?"   


I reached for the copy of Draco's obituary and slid it towards him before covering my face with his handkerchief again.   


The parchment scratched against the wood of my desk as he picked it up. "I heard about this earlier today. But no. I didn't kill him."   


"So who did?" I shrieked. "It had to be one of you!"   


"I don't know," he replied softly.   


"Tell me! I know it was one of you!" I was seriously losing it by that point. Lowering my hands, I saw that he had pulled a chair up to my desk and was now sitting next to me looking very uncomfortable. "If it was the Mudblood I swear I'll kill her, the bitch!"   


Shaking his head, he said, "I can guarantee you it wasn't Hermione. She's been...away for about a week. Parkinson, you need to calm down. You're in the middle of the _Prophet_ offices."   


"Is that supposed to make Draco any less dead?"   


Ron stood and pulled me up by my elbow. "You can't stay here. Come on." I noticed some of my coworkers had returned from breaks or errands, and they were staring at me. "She's fine," Ron said with a wave of his hand as he dragged me toward the front door by the elbow. "She'll be back tomorrow, good as new."   


In front of the lift, he held the sleeve of my robes. I didn't understand why he cared whether I ran from him or not. Not that I could have run at that point. I was exhausted. Crying takes a lot out of you. We rode the lift in silence into an abandoned storefront.   


"Are you wearing anything Muggleish under that?" he asked, indicating my robes.   


I nodded. "Skirt and blouse. Why?"   


"Because I can't take you for tea when you're dressed like a witch. People stare."   


"You...I...what..." This made no sense whatsoever. An hour ago, I hated Ron Weasley and I would have hexed him into next week before agreeing to have tea with him. Now I still hated him, but his presence calmed me, maybe because he was so calm himself.   


And I needed it.   


I let him lead me down the street, and I thought about what an odd pair we made. He was quite a bit taller than me and wearing torn jeans with ratty trainers, while I was dressed for the office. He didn't seem to have a clue as to where he was going, but we walked until he spotted a café that seemed acceptable.   


Once seated, he ordered tea and scones for both of us. The last thing I wanted to do was eat, but he wouldn't let me argue.   


"Why did you do this?" I asked when I could speak in a normal tone of voice.   


Shrugging, he said, "No idea, really, except that I couldn't let you take it out on your coworkers. You're a mess, Parkinson, and you've got a temper. Not a good combination."   


"Oh." I said the only thing I could. "Thanks, then. I guess."   


"You're welcome."   


Neither of us said anything after that. He poured our tea, and I sipped mine as I looked out the window. It was early July and people fanned themselves as they walked past, carrying shopping bags and briefcases.   


"I really don't know who killed Malfoy. I'm sorry."   


He shouldn't have spoken. I felt tears rise in my eyes as my throat closed. "Even if you did, you wouldn't tell me."   


"Maybe not. But still."   


"Aren't they going to be mad at you when they find out you're here?"   


"They? You mean the Order? Yeah, probably, but whatever."   


Whatever. A more romantic word was never spoken.   


"You didn't have to do this. Take me here." I wiped the corner of my eye with his handkerchief, which was damp now, nearly useless.   


"I know. Thanks for not hexing me, by the way."   


"Don't get used to it." I still hated him. Mostly.   


He paid the bill and took me back toward the _Prophet_ offices around five o'clock. "You don't have to tell anyone about this. In fact, it's probably better for both of us if you don't," he said as I shook out my robe, ready to put it back on.   


My mother, from the time I was little, told me that there were only two rules in life worth remembering. The first: Never put anything in your ear smaller than your elbow. The second: Men are stupid.   


She neglected to mention the third: Traumatic events make you do irrational things.   


"Agreed," I said, "but on one condition."   


"What's that?"   


"Come see me again."   


Ron didn't say anything, but he nodded before Disapparating.   


We scheduled our next meeting by owl. Dinner. July fourteenth, unless something major was going on regarding the war and he couldn't get away. We didn't have to worry. On July tenth, Harry Potter was triumphant (Rita Skeeter's word, not mine) over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in battle. Without a leader, many of the Death Eaters scattered. I wondered what was going to happen to my parents, but they reassured me that they would be fine. For those four days, I think I was numb. There was too much happening at once. Draco. Ron. The end of the war. Harry Potter. My parents. Their friends. Ron. People I knew from school. Twelve-hour days at the _Prophet_ offices.   


Ron.   


He met me at the office at six o'clock, when I got done with work, and when he opened the door for me I noticed he smelled good. It wasn't the formulated, perfectly balanced way Draco used to, but like soap and clean laundry and faintly of grass. If our first meeting had been awkward, this was awkward with a side of strange and a serving of bizarre for dessert. Over dinner, Ron talked about his brothers and said they had all gone back to their homes. I think he mentioned places like Romania and Egypt. I could barely keep track of their names. His mother is either a saint or crazy. Both, perhaps.   


I guess dinner was all right. I had too much on my mind to really consider the food. If nothing else, Ron seemed to enjoy his. Well, I'm sure he enjoyed the part that didn't end up in his lap. I was glad he hadn't taken me anyplace that required the use of chopsticks.   


"So, er, did you want to do anything after dinner?" he asked.   


"We could sneak into a Muggle football stadium and watch a game," I suggested.  


He looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head. "What?"   


"Tell anyone else and you'll find yourself belching a lot worse than slugs. I like Muggle football. Sometimes I sneak into games. It's not hard. Just takes a few seconds with a Confundus Charm."   


"But football is so boring! They don't fly, they've only got one ball, and honestly, what do you need that many players on a team for?"   


I raised an eyebrow at him. "You sound like you're an expert on the subject. Tell me, how many games have you been to?"   


"You don't have to go to a game to know--"   


"Yeah, that's what I thought. You've never been. So that's what we'll do tonight."   


Contrary to what my mother told me, not all men are stupid. Ron was smart enough to not argue with me.   


It was hot that night, and humid. We were sweating just sitting in the stands watching the game. I don't remember who was playing that night, but I remember the gentle pressure of Ron's leg against my own and the tickle of the curly red hairs on his arm. Our hands bumped occasionally, but we didn't let it go beyond that. Not until most of the people in the stadium had cleared out.   


"That wasn't so bad, was it?" I asked. "Maybe it was even a little fun."   


"A little. It'll never replace Quidditch, though."   


"I didn't say it had to."   


We walked out of the stadium and down the street. People pushed past us, or rode by on bicycles.   


"We should probably be getting home soon," said Ron.   


"Yeah. I guess. But if we're going to Apparate, we should go someplace where the Muggles won't see." I pointed down a darkened alley that maybe didn't look like the most appetizing place to live, but it would work well as an Apparition point. We turned right, took a few steps forward into the darkness, and stopped.   


"So, er, I guess I'll...see you soon?" Ron's voice was strained.   


"If you're lucky."   


He laughed and shook his head as he reached forward to hug me.   


We didn't let go.   


I felt his mouth on my neck and I tilted my head to the side, grasping him around the waist. As he ran his tongue along my pulse I tugged at the bottom hem of his shirt, but I hadn't freed it from his jeans before he cupped the side of my face and kissed me.   


Ron's mouth was as warm as the summer night around us, hungry but not desperate. I felt the brush of stubble as he held my head to his lips, pressing my head forward with his fingertips. I thought to tell him that he didn't have to hold me there, that I would stay on my own, but I didn't.   


Winding the bottom of his shirt around my hand, I pulled it from where it was tucked into his jeans. His skin underneath was cool and slightly damp, smooth at his sides. I slipped one finger under his waistband, running my fingertip along the top of the elastic of his underwear. He had moved away from my lips and back to my neck, sucking on the skin where my neck met my shoulder.   


Above Ron's breathing I could hear the sounds of the street outside, shouts and laughs and a siren in the distance.   


"Maybe we should go someplace a little more private," he said hoarsely.   


I shook my head and pulled him to me by his jeans, feeling the long length of his body. "Don't be such a ponce."   


He laughed, and his chest vibrated against mine. "All right, then, maybe not."   


If the possibility of being caught kept even part of his mind off me, he didn't show it. He kissed me in what was probably every way he knew how, from taking my lower lip in his teeth to letting his tongue linger in my mouth and over my throat.   


I could feel him getting hard, and it thrilled me, made me feel powerful, made me forget for a moment that we were in a dark, dirty Muggle alley where anyone could see us doing anything. Sweat made my blouse stick to my chest. Ron was panting. We were scrambling for buttons and gasping between kisses. He held me to him by the small of my back, stoking his erection on the pressure of my hips.   


It wasn't enough.   


I wanted to see him lose control.   


When I reached to unzip his jeans, though, he put his hand on top of mine.   


"I can't, Pansy."   


"What?" Tell me I was imagining things. Tell me Ron did not just stop. Goddamn Gryffindors with their high and mighty moral bullshit and--   


"I like you too much."   


I _was_ imagining things.   


"I mean, I want to." He smiled and shook his head. "Believe me, I want to. But not here."   


"Where, then?"   


"I meant...not tonight. I told you. I like you too much."   


"Is that what you say to all the girls you chicken out on?"   


"I'm not...." Taking my hands, he looked down. "Can I see you again?"   


"Why, so you can tease me and then tell me you're not ready yet?"   


"Come off it, Pansy. If I didn't care about you, we could do it. Right here. I wouldn't care. But I do." His hands were tight around mine as he looked into my eyes. I knew he was sincere, and sad, and I hated it. I hated him.   


"Uh huh." Wrenching my hands from his, I buttoned my blouse and straightened my skirt.   


"I'm sorry."   


"Yeah, I bet you are."   


I Apparated home. I didn't need that crap.   


That crap, however, was what I thought about most of the next day as I filed old _Prophet_ clippings and checked the sports page for spelling errors. I felt scattered, part of me reliving the night with Ron and part of me, traitorous, thought of Draco. For all my attempts to overcome all the craziness that was my life of the past few months, I only succeeded in multiplying it.   


If I were anyone but me, I'd probably want to sit down and talk to Ron.   


Later that afternoon, I was in the archive with pencils stuck in my hair and my reading glasses hanging from the neck of my robes when a voice called, "Parkinson! There's someone here to see you."   


I didn't think I had any appointments scheduled that afternoon, so I came out of the archive cautiously. Ron was standing at the front desk with a bunch of yellow daisies in one hand.   


"Don't you have a job or someplace you need to be?" I asked.   


"Want to have dinner tonight?"   


Taking the flowers, I shook my head. "You think you can just drop in and expect that I'll have tonight free? That I've been saving the time for you?"   


He shrugged. "Or tomorrow. Or Friday. Whichever."   


"Whichever," I mocked. "Nice to know spending time with me means so much to you."   


Sighing, he leaned over the desk and said softly, "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have led you on like that, but I was... I guess..."  


"You were thinking with your dick," I whispered. "Because you're a bloke, and that's what blokes do, and daisies are not going to get you off the hook. I'm not opposed to one-night stands, but if it's going to be a one-night thing, I don't want to date you. You don't get to play me like that. Here's a bit of news for you: If you really want to see me, you've got to do it right. The flowers are a start. Now try asking me out more than eight hours in advance."   


His eyes went wide for a moment. I could tell that he was not expecting me to read him the riot act like that. However, I had come to expect a certain level of equality in my relationships...okay, relation _ship_... but still, I knew how I liked to be treated and I was going to maintain it.   


"All... all right," he said. He stood up straight and made eye contact with me over the reception desk. "Pansy, would you like to meet me for dinner on Saturday?"   


Finally. "Yes," I replied. "You can pick me up at eight."   


It was September before I knew it, and I'd earned a promotion at the Prophet. I was still doing a lot of the same work, including fact-checking, but I was getting paid more and saving to move out of my parents' house. I hadn't told my parents I was seeing Ron. They would lock me in my room and accompany me to work when they let me out, if I was lucky. As far as they knew, I had made some close girlfriends at work and we had a standing Saturday night out. They were happy that I was making friends, moving on from the war, though I think I was moving on a lot less than they thought I was.   


Draco was buried next to Narcissa in the Black family plot, and I always brought lavender or lilacs to his grave. I never told anyone I went to see him, not even Ron, even though Ron would probably be more understanding of my need to visit Draco's grave than almost anyone. Lucius was serving a life sentence in Azkaban, which I had to learn at work because my parents refused to talk about it.   


I would be glad to move out.   


"I want to take you someplace special tonight," said Ron, presenting me with a daisy (pink this time, my favorite color) as I met him for dinner that night. "After we eat, though. I'm hungry."   


Of course he was hungry.   


"Sure."   


We hadn't been to a Muggle football game since that night in July. My guess was that he was worried about what I'd expect from him afterwards. He wasn't entirely wrong. That night, though, he pulled out his wand and worked a quick Confundus Charm on the ticket taker, and I think I almost fell in love. After the game we walked for a while, holding hands. Nights were cooler now, but when I got an inkling of where he was taking me it might as well have been July hot.   


No one was in the alley. I half wondered if he'd cast some sort of charm to make Muggles turn away. I hoped he hadn't. That would spoil the fun.   


"Come here," he growled, pulling me to him. I felt him smile against my lips. He laced his fingers between mine and pushed my arm behind my back. With his other hand, he reached for my buttons.   


"You're sure you don't like me too much?" I asked. If he wanted to snog here, even do more than snog, that was fine with me, but I do pride myself on the fact that while I make a lot of mistakes, I never make the same mistake twice.   


"I like you even more now than I did then." He opened the last button and slid his hand into my shirt, under the cup of my lace bra. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't." Moving my blouse and the strap of my bra off my shoulder, he kissed my nipple. He still had my hand behind my back, but he let it go slowly.   


Neither of us had talked about what happened the last time we were here. It was too uncomfortable and led to too many questions. Now, I realized, it was better that we hadn't talked, that we could let things just happen.   


Well, I could let things happen, anyway.   


As he glided his tongue over my breast I arched back, reaching for the waist of his trousers. This time, he didn't stop me. In ten seconds I had opened his belt and zipper, and all he did was swallow as I gently pulled his trousers and underwear over his hips. Reaching for his arse, I almost laughed. Some of my girlfriends in Slytherin used to complain that white blokes were completely flat in the posterior, but I never believed them because Draco always had quite a nice arse. As I lowered my hand down Ron's back, though, I found that the girls, as usual, were right. Without a belt, his trousers would never stay up. How men grew up and learned complicated magic without ever growing an arse worth sitting on was something I would never figure out. On Ron, though, it was kind of...cute.   


"What's wrong?" he asked. I could see his chest rising and falling in the dim light.   


"Absolutely nothing." I stepped back and conjured a small pillow on the ground. No sense in being uncomfortable.   


"What are you--"   


He swallowed the rest of his sentence as I knelt in front of him, took his wrists and pressed them against his sides, then guided his cock into my mouth with my tongue. Ron struggled weakly against my hands, but I held him where he was. He had the strength to push me away if he wanted, and I wasn't such a bitch that I would keep going if he asked me to stop.   


"Pansy, please."   


A cruel part of me nearly asked him, "Please what?" but I knew he had no answer and I wasn't in the mood to torture him. Not like that, anyway. I held to his wrists as I licked along the underside of his cock, pulling back nearly all the way and then taking as much of him as I could. I had no idea if this was how he liked it, but... Who was I kidding? He was a bloke. He loved it.   


When I let go of his wrists he ran his fingers through my hair. He was gentleman enough, though, not to push on my head. I could smell him, musk and a hint of soap. Through the veins on his cock I could feel his pulse getting faster. We all have our points of no return, and he passed his fairly quickly. He was vocal, which I liked. I could hear him moaning and cursing over the sounds of the street, and wondered for a moment if they could hear us, too.   


I hoped they could.   


Ron came, and I pulled back at the last minute. I could taste him, bitter salt, on my lips. He sounded for a moment like he was in pain, but I knew it was him stifling a cry of pleasure.   


The next time, I hoped we wouldn't be somewhere where he would have to silence himself. I rather liked hearing him.   


"Pansy," he breathed.   


Sitting back on my knees, I smiled up at him. He laughed in that way people do to release tension, and ruffled my hair.   


"I really do like you, you know," he said.   


"Yeah," I replied. "I got that feeling."   


And maybe he didn't have David Beckham's arse, or any arse at all, but I was willing to forgive that. 


End file.
